


Crossing the Arkaig

by Luzula



Series: That Good Faith [1]
Category: Flight of the Heron - D. K. Broster
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Duty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Feelings Realization, Honor, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scotland, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22245244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula
Summary: Major Keith Windham is sent to Loch Arkaig, where he comes across an escaped prisoner.
Relationships: Ewen Cameron/Keith Windham
Series: That Good Faith [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703125
Comments: 20
Kudos: 17





	Crossing the Arkaig

**Author's Note:**

> I am grateful to Hyarrowen for the beta, the title idea, and all the email discussion! <3
> 
> Also, this story adopts Hyarrowen's AU branching point where Alison breaks off her betrothal to Ewen at Inverness instead of marrying him.

Major Keith Windham rode along the side of Loch Lochy, the hooves of his horse clopping on the road. At another time he might have reflected on the blessings of progress, bringing the well-made military road to replace the muddy tracks of these benighted Highlands. 

But his heart was heavy. Yesterday morning his friend, Ewen Cameron of Ardroy, had been taken to Fort Williams and thence most likely to Carlisle and the scaffold. He felt it as a dull ache that made his limbs feel slow and leaden. That such a man, so bright and generous and alive even diminished by two months of prison, might soon be lying cold in the ground was almost more than he could bear. But bear it he must, and do his duty besides. 

The clouds were low, obscuring the peaks and letting down a steady drizzle, and in the windless air, the still surface of the loch reflected the grey of the sky. Passing the southern end of Loch Oich some hours before, he had looked to the other side, where a heron had startled his horse last summer. He could not see any herons now. 

Lord Albemarle had sent him with a message to a detachment of soldiers searching for the Pretender. They were camped beyond Achnacarry, by the side of Loch Arkaig, and Albemarle sent word of rumours that he was holed up in some cave or other on the mountainside there. Keith would give much to see that adventurer captured—he was the ultimate cause of this miserable war which would no doubt see the inhabitants of this wild land starving come winter, those that had not been killed already. And he would certainly do his best to capture him now, though he felt that the likelihood of finding him in this particular spot was no higher than anywhere else. 

Coming to the southern end of the lake, he turned north towards the ford of the river Lochy, leaving the military road before High Bridge. He could feel the give of the soft ground under the hooves of his mare, Lively, though it was not as muddy as it could have been. The track brought him closer and closer to the formidable rise of the mountain, whatever its name was, with its many small streams rushing down the steep hillside to further swell the Lochy. But he forded the river with no trouble, and turned north towards Achnacarry. 

Keith pulled his cloak further round him in a futile effort to keep out the damp. The rain had not let up. But the clouds had lifted, just clearing the peaks of the hills to the northward, and the wind was rising. The sun had not set, but it was behind the hillside, leaving him in cold shadow. 

Achnacarry, when he reached it, was burnt to the ground and abandoned. He made himself look at it, remembering other burned houses and dead Highlanders that he had seen, both men and women. Then he forded the Arkaig and followed it westwards, skirting the shoulder of the low hill on the other bank. The soldiers' camp was on the northern side of the loch, some miles yet to go. 

Facing him was another slope, though less steep, cut by a stream in a narrow valley that would eventually lead to Ardroy. But he was not going that way, and it would not avail him if he did. Keith stopped by the side of that stream before crossing it, to let Lively drink and rest for a bit. 

His frowning contemplation of that hillside was broken by the startled explosion of a bird some hundred yards away—he would have thought it a grouse, but it was smaller and more pale, perhaps a dove. He turned to see what had startled it. A fox? Or something else? Keith drew his pistol, advancing towards the bushes from whence the fowl had come. 

And then, as he neared them, a man stood. At first Keith saw only the tartan of the plaid, and tightened his finger on the trigger in readiness. He remembered well the ambush that he had only narrowly escaped. 

But then he saw. 'Ardroy!' he exclaimed, lowering his pistol. 'But you—' 

'Windham!' They stared at each other in mutual disbelief. 

Ewen Cameron looked exhausted. His face was drawn, his legs muddy, his hair unruly and partly out of its queue, and as he stood there his stance wavered slightly. Keith knew he would not willingly have shown such weakness, and he holstered his pistol and rushed to his side. 

'Come, let me help you.' He offered Ardroy his arm, and after a slight pause the other man took it, leaning heavily on it as he limped down towards Lively. 

'How did you come here? What happened?' asked Keith. 

'I escaped at High Bridge,' replied Ardroy, recovering some of his poise. 

'Now that's a story I would like to hear,' said Keith. 'But first, are you hungry?' 

'I had two bannocks this morning, but yes, I would be grateful for something to eat.' 

'Sit, then, and I'll fetch you something.' 

Ardroy sank down on a rock and Keith went to his saddlebags, taking out bread and cheese and meat and filling his pewter mug in the stream. He sat down beside the other man and they broke bread together, sharing the same cup. Ardroy cut the meat with a small knife that Keith supposed might have played some role in his escape, but he did not want to interrupt him with questions while he ate, for it was clear that he sorely needed it. Instead, he too ate in silence, aware every moment of the man beside him. Keith's heart sang with his presence. 

They finished the meal, and Ardroy turned to him. 'Thank you. I am obliged to you yet again, it seems.' He had revived somewhat with the food, and Keith was glad to see it. 

'Seeing you alive is reward enough—I thought I would not see you again in life!' 

'Nor I,' said Ardroy.

'Now tell me how you escaped.'

So Ardroy told him the story, from the knife given him by the girl, to his weakness on the horse, his escape at the bridge, the miserable night he had spent there, and then his unlikely rescue by the farmers. 

'Saved by the English?' asked Keith dryly. 

'Indeed,' said Ardroy ruefully. 'Driving our Highland cattle with them, too.' 

The rain had stopped, Keith had not noticed when, and the sky was breaking up. He got up to find some reasonably dry branches under the trees, and shielding them from the wind with his body, he cupped his hand round some dry tinder and lit it. They watched the flames sputter and then catch. 

'Do you know today is our sixth meeting?' said Ardroy thoughtfully. 'That's one more than Old Angus foretold. I had not thought to see you again.'

'I wonder what that bird was that you startled. A dove, perhaps?' 

'Yes, it could have been. Perhaps it escaped from the dovecote at Achnacarry? I wonder what it can mean. I wish I could consult Old Angus about it.' 

'On the whole I don't see the use in speculating about the portentousness of various birds. My explanation is simpler: pure chance.' 

Ardroy smiled at this. 'I wonder. Chance would have to contort itself rather badly to account for it all.' 

Keith had to admit the truth of that. The wind was blowing in gusts now along the length of Loch Arkaig, breaking up the clouds into tatters. He held out his cloak to the fire, watching it steam and begin to dry. 

'Where will you—' began Keith, then broke off. 'No, do not answer that.' 

He had come close to the kernel of what he had been trying not to think about: his clear and present duty to capture Ardroy and bring him back to face his trial. He had no specific orders to do it, but given that he had stumbled upon him, he could have no excuse not to take him in. And weaponless and wounded as he was, Ardroy could make no meaningful resistance, even if they were far out of earshot of any reinforcements in the soldiers' camp. 

But Keith's heart and mind rebelled against bringing the man to what would very likely be his death. Even aside from the debts of honour that he owed him, the warmth of friendship that Keith felt for him made the thought intolerable. And his very tongue had betrayed him just now—it would be of no importance where Ardroy had intended to go if Keith were taking him prisoner. 

'I do not mind telling you, since it is obvious from my route. I am going to Ardroy first, if I have to crawl there.' His chin came up slightly in defiance or stubbornness. 'I know it is burned to the ground, but…' 

Keith's heart went out to him, but he could find no words of comfort. Finally he said, and it sounded stilted to his own ears, 'Ardroy. I am not in the habit of criticizing my superiors. But I have no stomach for the punitive measures on this campaign.'

'No, I never thought you did,' Ardroy looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, 'But please, no need to be so formal between friends—call me Ewen.' 

'Ewen,' said Keith, the name strange and intimate on his lips. 'Then you must call me Keith.' 

'I will.'

They sat silent a moment in the falling dusk, looking at the remains of the sunset, the ragged clouds a deep red that was reflected in the choppy waters of Loch Arkaig, and echoed in the glowing coals of their fire. 

Ardroy—no, Ewen—pulled his damp plaid closer round him. 'It will be the colder tonight for being clear,' he remarked. 

'Much preferable to rain.'

'True. But it will be cold. Shall we look for a place to sleep?' 

They moved away from the boggy ground near the stream, climbing a little way up the small hill near the Arkaig to some sheltering trees. Keith settled Lively nearby and gave her some oats. The ground was still wet, and Ewen set to cutting heather and piling it for insulation. 

Keith had his damp cloak, and a fairly dry blanket in a saddlebag, having expected to sleep in a tent in a soldiers' camp tonight. 

'Do you want to share blankets?' asked Ewen. 

'Not for my sake,' Keith said in a reflexive denial that he didn't want to examine. Then he looked at his friend, with his halfway bare legs and only a damp plaid for warmth, and him exhausted and pained by his wound, and felt ashamed of himself. 'But you have nothing dry, I see,' he continued. 'Of course we'll share.' 

There was nothing strange about soldiers sharing blankets for warmth, damn it. 

They spread Keith's cloak on the heather, then sat down, Ewen levering himself down with a grunt, favouring his stiff leg. 

'Is there anything I can do to help with your leg?' asked Keith, recalling how he had dressed the wound as best he could in the hut on Beinn Laoigh. 

'No, but I thank you. It's not bleeding, but I landed badly on it when I jumped off the horse.'

Keith winced in sympathy. And he had walked on that for miles! 

'I am not sure that anything can be done for it besides rest,' said Ewen. 

'Let us rest, then.' 

They spread out the blanket first and then the plaid over it, drawing together side by side and tucking the blankets to keep out the cold air. 

'Sleep well, redcoat,' murmured Ewen, a smile in his voice. 

Keith snorted. 'You too, Highland barbarian.' 

'Oh, you slander me—I am clean-shaven.' He rubbed at his chin. 'Or I usually am, anyway. The facilities at Fort Augustus do not quite live up to the best civilization can offer.'

Keith elbowed him in the ribs, and he breathed out a laugh. 

They subsided. It was fully dark now, with only the stars blazing overhead. Keith thought that perhaps they were both avoiding the thought of the morning, pretending that they were only friends, with no war to separate them. 

And now that he lay there so close to Ewen's solid warm body, Keith could no longer deny the reason why he had been reluctant to share his blankets. Perhaps he should have placed his sword between them, Keith thought grimly. He was excruciatingly aware of the warmth along his side where their bodies met. Ewen's plaid smelled of wet wool and campfire smoke, but underneath was the scent of Ewen himself, and he drew it in with every breath. He thought of Ewen's thighs, naked under his kilt, and further—

No. No, he could not think this way. For his own sake, surely, and he could not assume that Ewen would be interested in any such thing. Keith fought to master himself, deliberately slowing his breathing, but he could do nothing about the pulse thudding in his body. 

Ewen stirred against him, settling himself a little closer, while Keith lay there like a stick. 

And it was not just carnal desire that he felt—it might have been easier to dismiss if it was. He ached to turn and take Ewen into his arms, stroke his hair from his face and kiss him. Even allowing the thought to enter his mind jolted him with such a combination of heat and tenderness that he could do nothing but lie there and endure it. 

Keith had not felt this way for years, if ever, and it was almost painful, like a limb coming back to life after having been chilled insensible. For years he had been cynical, eschewing any pursuit of human affection and turning to military ambition instead, but those defenses were now crumbling. 

His present condition hardly gave him much cause for optimism. Keith was not entirely a stranger to relations between men, having in his school years had a brief liaison with a fellow school mate. He had thought of it dismissively since as adolescent fumbling and the memory was dulled by the passage of time, but he was aware that at the time it had felt far more significant. But Ewen, besides being a man, was moreover a man who was Keith's enemy in wartime, and a fugitive who would very likely be sentenced to death if he were caught. 

This was an unlikely recipe for happiness, even if his feelings should ever be returned, and yet Keith felt—not happiness, no, but something deeper than that, which does not preclude sorrow: joy. 

The turmoil of his emotions gave way at last to the weariness of the road, and he slept. 

***

Keith woke gradually, at first aware only of warmth and a deep sense of comfort. He found that his face was in Ewen's hair, which had come fully loose from its queue in the night. Ewen had one arm slung over him, and they lay close enough that he could feel the slight rise and fall of Ewen's chest with his calm breathing as he slept. 

The sun had risen and was shining full on them, and it was warm, though still early in the morning. 

Keith knew this had to end. But he lay there a few moments more, matching his breathing to Ewen's. Sleep had brought no solution to his dilemma. It was unthinkable that he should dishonour himself by not doing his duty. He could not even tell himself that Ewen was unimportant to the course of this war, since he knew that Ewen would do everything he could to aid the Pretender, even wounded as he was. 

But visiting Ewen in prison, Keith had told him that he would give his right hand to save him—and that was before he had fully realized what Ewen meant to him. It was tenfold true now. 

As if to prove to himself that he had at least some control over his own actions, Keith carefully extricated himself from Ewen's arms, turning his back on him and going down to the stream for some water. When he got back, Ewen was sitting up, tying his hair back again. 

'Good morning,' said Keith. Back to the things that could be said, as opposed to those that could only be thought, if that. 'How is your leg?'

'Good morning. I haven't yet tried to stand on it,' said Ewen wryly. He did so now, limping a few steps experimentally, but without putting his full weight on the leg. 

'Injuries are always stiff in the morning.' 

'Indeed. Did you sleep well?' 

'Tolerably,' said Keith somewhat shortly and went to his saddlebags for food. 

They broke their fast looking down at the waters of Loch Arkaig. Keith glanced at Ewen and was startled to see the emotion on his face. 'I never thought I would see this again,' he said simply. 

Keith looked out over the valley again, and with a contagious warmth of feeling saw something of what Ewen must be seeing. The intensity of colour was remarkable—the deep blue of the sky reflected in the loch, the green of the trees, the purple of the heather just coming into flower, the subtle ochre and red shades of the peat moss by the stream. 

'I suppose this wilderness might not be quite as ill-favoured as I thought when I first came here,' admitted Keith. 

Ewen laughed, which had rather been his object. 'Coming from you, that is high praise.' 

They finished their meal. Keith again thought what it would mean to take Ewen prisoner. He was still suspended in a sort of agony of indecision, but even that was a sort of decision, was it not? 

Ewen rose and began to limp his way down to their camp again, while Keith continued to stare out over the lake. 

'Keith,' said Ewen gently. 

Keith turned to look at him, and stared into the muzzle of his own pistol. The jolt of it made him feel for a moment as if all his innermost thoughts were apparent, and this was the judgment for it. He closed his eyes. 

'Keith, no! I am not going to shoot you! I only thought to make this easier on you—I know it is your duty to bring me in.' 

'That would indeed make it easier on me,' muttered Keith. 

He was appalled at himself. Had his wits been so addled by Ewen's presence that he could not even keep track of his weapons? Apparently so. Or seen from another perspective, he had trusted him so implicitly that it had not occurred to him to guard them. 

Not that his trust had been misplaced—Ewen had cut neatly through his Gordian knot. 

'Keith?' said Ewen cautiously. 

'I suppose I have no choice but to let you go, then, since you are holding me at pistol point,' said Keith. 'And while you are at it, nothing would stop you from taking my horse as well.'

'I couldn't let you give me your horse!'

'I would not be _giving_ her to you. You would be taking her. At pistol point.'

'Yes, of course. But—Keith, that is a thin line you are treading,' said Ewen quietly. 

And well Keith knew it. Nevertheless: 'I have two good legs; you do not. Could you even reach Ardroy?' 

'I could,' said Ewen, looking stubborn. 

'And after that? I do not ask what your plans are, but you'll likely find no help there, and it must be as far again to the next habitation.' 

Ewen was silent. Finally he said, the emotion plain on his face, 'Keith, I will repay you this, I swear it. And if ever you are in need, I will help you if it is in my power to do so.' He was touching the blade of his small dagger as he said it. 

Keith met his gaze, not trusting himself to speak. Finally he said, 'Farewell, Ewen.' 

Ewen made a movement as if to come and take his hands, but with a rueful expression seemed to recall that he was holding a pistol on him. 'Farewell, Keith.' 

He made his way carefully down the slope to the horse, took his plaid from their shared bed and divided the food and gear from the saddlebags, seeming to weigh which of them might most need each item. 

Keith watched him get astride Lively with some difficulty, and ride down to the little stream. As he began to cross it, Keith saw with mounting incredulity the grey bird which flew with slow dignified wingstrokes along the side of the lake. Ewen checked the horse and followed the heron with his gaze as it flew over his head, then turned towards Keith. He was too far away for Keith to make out the expression on his face, but Keith could well imagine it. 

'We are by a lake, Ewen,' he muttered. 'It is not as though herons are uncommon here.'

The heron, undeterred by Keith's disgust, flew serenely on, directly over his head. 

'Well, if it signifies anything, which I sincerely doubt,' said Keith to Ewen's imagined rejoinder, 'I hope it marks the end of this ridiculous prophecy.' 

Ewen raised his hand to him, and Keith did likewise. He knew he should leave, but he did not. Instead, he watched as Ewen made his slow way up the hill, following the track that led up along the deeply cut watercourse which would take him finally to Ardroy. He paused before the shoulder of the hill took him out of Keith's sight, only a small figure now, and Keith imagined he could see the sun catching on the auburn of his hair. Then he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...although it will take a while, because the sequel will be long. : )


End file.
